The relief of my confession was short-lived. I felt her shift slightly against me, the quiet acceptance giving way to the cold, undeniable question I had seen brewing in her eyes, the core of her bitterness.
She pushed herself back just enough so she could meet my gaze, her expression solemn, still tinged with pain.
"I appreciate your honesty," she whispered, her voice surprisingly firm despite the weakness in her body. "But why, Alex? Why did it take a near-death experience to tell me this?"
The question hung heavy in the warm kitchen air. It was a fair, necessary cruelty. It forced me to dissect the fundamental flaw in my personality, the very reason our marriage began as a contract.
I lifted my hand from her back and ran it slowly through my hair, buying a moment to formulate the truth without sounding clinical.
"Because I am a coward," I admitted, the self-loathing sharp and immediate. "I am a coward in my personal life, Ava."
